Howie tried to relax but his muscles were tense and sore. The flight to Spain from England had been late in arriving and boarding, plus they’d sat on the runway for two hours before takeoff. The flight was interrupted with long stretches of turbulence and the high pitched screams of several kids in coach had penetrated even into first class. He hadn’t been able to relax on the plane, and even now, on the small bus, he was still uncomfortable as he tried in vain to recline his seat.
The venue and hotel were a good two hour drive from the airport; he and the rest of the group were packed into a dingy sightseeing bus. It was just plain bad luck to have their luxury bus break down before they could even board. So many things had gone wrong this trip. Although Howie wasn't superstitious, sometimes these things were hard to overlook. He was anxious to get this tour finished and get back to his home in Los Angeles.
The last leg of this tour seemed to drag on forever; they’d been on the road off and on for eight long months. They were all exhausted and ready for some down time, even their families had gone home. Only two shows in Italy were left after tomorrow’s show, and then they would be jetting home. In a week, he’d be sleeping in his own bed, he could hardly wait.
It was nearly lunchtime, according to his watch. He wasn't sure what time it was in this country, but his stomach was telling him he was hungry.
“Need a cheeseburger, Howie?” Nick asked, laughing. He had heard his band mate's stomach growl from three feet away.
“I need something,” he admitted. They had eaten before boarding the plane but that had been many hours ago. The food had been barely palatable and he’d just picked at it, thinking that he’d eat on the plane, but they’d been unable to serve the meal because of the turbulence.
“We'll be at the hotel soon,” Brian said. “Then we can all get something to eat.”
“There is a nice restaurant very close, I eat there all the time,” Juan Antonio said. “With all this traffic, it will take another hour or so to reach your hotel, and then wait for room service…” He shrugged his shoulders; they all knew just how long room service could take to deliver a meal. “We should stop now to eat if you are hungry.”
Juan Antonio was their liaison from the European branch of their record company, in charge of making sure the band had everything it needed while in Europe.
“Sure, why not?” Marcus said. As head of their security team, he was responsible for the safety of the group. Marcus had worked with Juan Antonio during the last world tour three years earlier. He had seemed proficient enough then; nothing had gone awry while dealing with him.
“It's just up here, to your right.” He guided the driver to the low, nondescript building. They were on the outskirts of their destination, but traffic congestion inside the city would make getting to the hotel difficult. “It is not a tourist attraction, the locals mainly come here.”
Between the band, security, and the rest of their people, they made up a large group and took up more than half of the restaurant. Their family members had gone on to the next venue and were waiting for them there, seeing as the hotel in this city was unable to accommodate that many people on one secure floor. After perusing the menu, they all ordered and sat back to enjoy a glass of wine while waiting. Howie sipped at his, savoring the light fruity taste and delicate bouquet of the wine.
As Howie turned to speak to AJ, a great crashing noise startled them.
“What the hell is that?” AJ yelled, jumping to his feet as a metal canister rolled past their table. They looked down at it, not knowing what it was.
There was a blinding light and deafening boom, then the room suddenly filled with smoke. Howie started choking, he could barely breathe. He couldn’t see anything either, he had no idea where the exits were, he knew he should’ve paid more attention as they entered. Someone grabbed him and started dragging him off. He sent a prayer upward in gratitude; someone was going to save him. It was his last thought for a very long time.
**********************
Howie woke to darkness, unable to see or move. With no concept of time, he had no idea how long he had been out or where he was. Panic filled him, he struggled to loosen his bonds but it was no use.
He was blindfolded, gagged, and tied hand and foot. Beneath him the hard concrete surface radiated so much heat that he sweated profusely. Fear tasted metallic on his tongue, he’d never felt this frightened before in his life. There were voices coming from another room, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. He listened closely, trying to glean some clue to their identity and to his location. The men were speaking a Middle Eastern language, that much he could figure out, and it filled him with dread.
“Has he heard back from the filthy American dogs yet?” one man asked.
“They are refusing to talk; they say they do not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Not even for American celebrities?”
“They must not place much value on them,” the other one said. “Maybe we have misjudged them?”
“No, they will pay to get them back. We have all five of them, I have heard from the others that they all got away safely.”
“That is good; with all of them we have more power. Our Spanish friend did well; he deserves the money we paid him.”
Howie wondered what they were talking about, but then decided it was probably a good thing he didn't - they might be plotting his death. The adrenaline that surged through his body slowly receded and his pulse returned to normal. He laid there for a long time; he could tell that night had fallen when the room became chilled. He fell asleep, despite the cramps in his legs and arms.
When morning came, Howie was still laying on the floor. His muscles ached, his mouth was so dry he could barely swallow, his fingers were numb. He heard footsteps coming closer, blood started rushing in his head and he struggled to control his breathing.
“Is this it? Are they going to kill me now?” he thought desperately. He didn’t want to die this way, so far from home and his family. He fought to control his emotions as he heard the bolt in the door slide open. He was yanked upright; his bonds were removed, then the blindfold. He blinked in the dim light, rubbing his hands together to restore circulation.
“Do not try to escape, it would be very foolish,” the man said in heavily accented English.
Howie looked up at the man. He was dressed all in black with a white scarf wrapped around his head to hide his face. An automatic rifle hung from a sling on his shoulder.
“I’m not stupid,” Howie managed to croak, his throat dry. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun, wondering if these were his last few moments on earth.
“Good, remember you are our prisoner. We would not hesitate to kill you if necessary.” The man turned and left, closing the door behind him. Howie heard a bolt slide home in the door.
Taking a deep breath, he was cautiously optimistic that he had a little longer to live. He climbed slowly to his feet, stretching his cramped muscles. There was a small open window in one wall, but it was only a foot square and near the top of wall, too high for him to even see out of. The room was empty, nothing but a rough floor and four concrete block walls. He had a sudden need to relieve himself. Looking around he spied a metal bucket in one corner. When he got closer, he could smell that it had been used for that purpose before. Grimacing in disgust, he emptied his bladder and then sat back down in the farthest corner.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked himself, his mind in a whirl. “And where are the others? Are they here in another room?” He realized now that he had been kidnapped, probably by terrorists. The thought didn’t ease his mind any, he knew what happened to most Americans kidnapped by holy warriors.
A short time later the door opened and a woman entered, the man with the rifle standing just behind her. She carried in a tray and set it down on the floor just inside the door. She was dressed in the traditional black burkha that many Islamic women wore; he could only see her eyes through a slit in the fabric. The man closed the door after the woman left and bolted it from the other side.
On the tray was a cup of green tea, a small slab of flat bread and a bowl of something that smelled unappetizing. He ate the drab bread and drank the tea, wishing he had more, but ignored the food, no matter that his stomach protested. He wasn't so desperate for food that he would eat what looked like pig slop, they hadn't even given him a utensil to eat with.
He wondered what happened to his band mates - had they been taken prisoner too? Were they close by or taken to another city? He prayed that they had gotten away, but thought that they too probably had been taken. The whole assault had been too perfectly executed for it to have been random - he wondered if Juan Antonio had been in on it - he had been the one to suggest that restaurant.
It was no matter now, he was a prisoner of terrorists and that was not a good thing. He remembered watching in horror on TV as other American prisoners were found dead when the US refused to negotiate their release. It was American policy, he knew. However, he was hoping that perhaps someone was trying to find him and get him out.
*********************
It was mid afternoon when the doorbell rang. Hoke went to answer it, they didn’t get many people coming to the door in their gated community, and usually the front gate called to let them know they had a visitor coming in.
He opened the door to find a man dressed in a somber black suit, carrying a small, thin briefcase. A dark four door sedan was parked in the driveway.
“Are you Hoke Dorough?” He nodded; the man removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “My name is Special Agent Alex McDonald. May I come in please?” He flashed his badge and then stepped inside.
“Who is it, Hoke?” Paula asked, coming to his side. She got there in time to hear the man’s name, her heart skipped a beat. Hoke recognized the man as government before he said a word, he’d had enough dealings with them during his time as a policeman to instantly recognize the demeanor and look.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dorough, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. We received word earlier that a group of Americans traveling in Spain were kidnapped. We’ve verified their identities – and your son was one of five men taken captive. We believe that the men who’ve taken your son are Islamic terrorists.”
Paula blanched, her heart nearly stopping in her fright and sudden panic.
“And the others taken were…?”
“Your son’s friends, the other members of the group.”
“I see,” Hoke said softly, trying to still the dread in his soul.
“I have some paperwork…” the man said, indicating his briefcase.
“Of course. Come this way, please.” Hoke led the agent to the dining room table. The man’s words were just a jumble of sounds to Paula; all she could think of was her baby being held captive. After signing some documents, Hoke led the government man back to the front door.
“I am sorry, sir. I know this is difficult for you both. But we are doing everything we can to retrieve them.” Agent McDonald slid his sunglasses from his pocket and carefully put them back on.
“Is there anything we can do?” Hoke asked.
“Nothing you can do right now but pray, Mr. Dorough. We’ll contact you when we learn more information.”
As the door shut, Paula could hold it in no longer. “What are we going to do?” she asked. When she saw the tears running down Hoke’s cheeks, she became very afraid - he rarely cried.
Paula fell to her knees and prayed that her son would be released quickly and unharmed. After a long and fervent prayer, she rose and looked at her husband. “We have to do something,” Paula said. “Make some phone calls. I can’t just sit here and wait for something to happen.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a number, the woman who answered was crying.
“Jackie? You’ve heard?” The women talked for a long time, consoling each other and trying to make plans. Brian’s mother was just as upset as Paula, but they knew that together they would be stronger and they planned on calling the other parents too. Banding together would be their strength over the coming ordeal.
*************************
The woman came back a little later to remove Howie’s tray. When she saw he had not eaten much, she didn’t say anything. He sat in his cell alone for the rest of the day, sleeping off and on to ease the pain of his loneliness. He started at every noise, thinking it was his captors coming to get him. Sweat ran down his sides as the heat of the day built to an unbearable level. He wished they would bring him some water, his throat was so dry.
During his waking hours, reality came crashing over him and he had to fight to keep from sobbing in despair. Sleep was his way of dealing with his emotions; he didn’t want his captors to know just how afraid he was. But his dreams were of home, of family and friends he might not ever see again, so sleep was not the escape he thought it would be.
Just after nightfall, the woman returned with another tray. Once again the same revolting food was offered. Again he refused to eat, despite the yawning emptiness of his belly.
For the next three days, his captors came in every couple of hours to interrogate him.
“You work for the CIA,” the short man would shout at him.
“No! I’ve told you a million times, I’m a singer,” Howie insisted. The man punched him in the stomach, doubling him over.
“We know you are a spy. Confess and it will make things easier for you.”
“I’m not a spy.” Again, a punch to the stomach and Howie fell to the floor, curling into a ball to protect himself.
“You lie!” The short man kicked him hard, the heavy leather boots more punishing than the man’s fists.
“I swear to God I am only an entertainer,” Howie kept telling them over and over again, but they didn’t believe him. Every time Howie heard the bolt slide he began to tremble, knowing that the men were returning to question him, to hit him. He wondered if each interrogation would be his last, if they were coming to kill him.
He could not stand up straight any longer; his ribs were bruised and battered. One eye was swollen but he could still see, thankfully. He thought maybe a couple of teeth were loose as well, but he couldn’t tell for certain. Howie wasn’t sure which was worse – the pain in his body or that in his soul.
Fear drove away his hunger, his stomach revolted if he even thought about food. After five days of captivity and continuing harassment, Howie still had not eaten anything but bread and tea. In his confused state of mind, he thought they were trying to poison him since it appeared that they were bringing him the same bowl of food every day.
He was weak, almost unable to hold his own weight. He knew he needed food but couldn’t bring himself to eat what was in the bowl. When the woman entered that evening, she looked at the tray and saw the bowl was still full.
“Is there a reason you are not eating?” she asked. Howie was startled; he had not expected her to talk to him, especially not in perfect English.
“I can’t eat it,” he admitted.
“Why not? It is the same food that we eat.” Her voice sounded cold and indifferent.
Howie didn’t want to insult her, assuming correctly that she had cooked the food. “It is not…appealing to me,” he tried to explain. “The smell…” His stomach flipped just at the thought of the food, he had to suppress a gag.
“It is called kubba – it’s made from minced goat meat, nuts and raisins.” When he heard what was in the bowl, Howie was glad that he hadn’t eaten. The woman could read the disgust plainly on his face. “Do you not eat goat in the United States?”
“Not where I live,” he said.
“Is it against your religion?” she asked, perplexed.
“No, it’s just not a meat that most of us eat. We don’t eat horses either, like some European countries do.” He shuddered at the thought; he had almost eaten that once in a restaurant in France. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the food, I realize you could let me starve.” He thought he saw her eyes soften just a little bit.
“I am sorry the food is not to your liking,” she said in a low voice, glancing back at the door. “I will make you something without goat then. I could perhaps get a chicken.”
“Thank you, that is very kind.”
“I will do what I can. I have little money to spend and four people to feed.”
Howie felt ashamed for asking for special treatment. He was in fact a prisoner, but she had offered. “I have some money I can give you – if that will help,” he volunteered. In the dim light, he could see her eyes harden.
“That would get me killed,” she said, stooping to pick up the tray.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as she reached for the door knob. She hesitated, as if to say something more, but then left without another word. His stomach growled that night and, as he had the previous nights, he ignored it.
Story Notes:
I started this fan fic many years ago and just now completed it. I mean no disrespect to any race, religion, or culture. I researched the practices and customs (of this country and religion) and tried to portray what these characters would do, say, or feel if put into this scenario. If you feel anything is inaccurate or disrespectful, please leave a comment and I will correct it. Thank you for reading!
